


Interlude: Fading to Red

by Mari Black (LochNessRaven)



Series: Torn Asunder [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Romance, Knight-Enchanters (Dragon Age), Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26215462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LochNessRaven/pseuds/Mari%20Black
Summary: Lavellan unleashes her power during battle, and seeks relief from the nightmares in the arms of a companion. Her lover(s) observe her struggles in silence.Fading to Red is part of the "Torn Asunder" series, but is removed from chronological context. A brief interlude in the story, taking place some time after "A Delicious Predicament," but well before the events that take place in the Arbor Wilds.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Unknown
Series: Torn Asunder [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700971





	Interlude: Fading to Red

The air like ozone crackles when she moves. Shoulders taut, thin arms wiry with endurance, her core strong as she braces for the onslaught. Crouching, her stance wide, she knows she is small and instinctively finds her gravity, her pose solid but relaxed, elastic with potential violence. A heartbeat, then blurred staff whistling above her head in an arch of static, lightening exploding through the space ahead of her in a deadly storm.  


She is electricity, chaos harnessed only by the strength of her will. As she runs to the front line every movement, every stride is measured and conserved. Her power is coiled, focused and sustained, until the Mark on her hand flares in a split second and reality explodes. 

* * *

You watch with admiration as she trains to fight stronger, faster, smarter. Her body is athletic and limber when she undulates against you, lithe legs gripping your waist as she strains to bring you in deeper, muscles rippling across her ribs and stomach as she shudders in the climax of her sensuality. The supple flesh that once yielded under your grasp has been burned away by constant battles and survival. Only her dark hair in silk rivers spread across the moonlit grass retained her former softness; and perhaps her face when tranquil from a deep, exhausted sleep.  


You lay by her side, propped up on one arm, and lightly trace the white scars that now marble her tanned skin, trying once again to count each freckle like dark constellations, peppered through the galaxy of fresh bruises that elfroot couldn’t heal. Part of you selfishly wishes she would open her hazel eyes so you can see gentleness in her face again without the burden of responsibility. But you you’ll fall asleep counting those freckles down her back, and she’ll be gone to her own tent before you wake again.  


When she yells in defiance, her fury is unmitigated. When she laughs in joy, her delight is unassumed. Her demeanor is uninhibited by the reservation of a world which wears too many faces. Her honesty of self is embraced in her imperfections, and her unabashed tears tie gossamer strings around your heart.  


Even at rest, she is thinking, planning, always weighing the next options. Every foothold gained in this war means another sacrifice she must bear. There will always be more soldiers to send to their deaths, more villages found razed, more innocent people caught up in the maelstrom. Too many lives lost, a litany too late.

* * *

She sings for their spirits when she thinks no one is watching.  
Each morning she rises before dawn, washes her hands reverently with water. She sings softly to Mythal in a cadence the Dalish barely understand, an ancient hymn of protection nearly forgotten. She bathes herself in the smoke of simmering coals, waiting in silence for Skyhold to stir.  


Each day she hunts in the name of Andruil, a violent prayer sung with blood. Her prey become the demons, the Red Templars, the darkspawn, and the corpses that would feed on others. Her battles become a dance of Vir Tanadhal, the Way of Threes, every stalking step skirting the knife’s edge of madness.  


Each evening she leaves offerings for Fen’Harel, found feathers or colourful rocks or blooming flowers stained with a sliver of bloody meat, placed well away from the battlements. She slowly backs away, silently placing one foot behind the other, never turning her back as she beseeches the Trickster God to accept her distractions, to turn his gaze away from them for one more night.  


When she the party for stories and banter, she jokes in fun and drinks by the hearth, but you can tell her mind is still halfway in hell.

* * *

The world parts as she rushes forward, ethereal as she Fadesteps into the fray. The Mark now pulses in time with her own deadly rhythm, quickening to a battle cry. Limbs sever as a sparking blade of spirit energy rends flesh in hot agony. Confusion breaks their ranks as the rage-red Templars attempt to regroup against a mage who refuses to fight from a distance. She closes, sliding under their reach, striking them below with her staff. Monsters in armour scream as crystalline shards shatter, suddenly pulled into a small Rift tearing across the field. The vacuum crushes the bodies in a grotesque trap, easy targets for the team to pick off.  


You watch over your shoulder, as she glimmers through the remaining enemies, paralyzing and debilitating, jumping out of existence, then reappearing to strike again. Her dance becomes fierce, fearless, flickering across the battlefield. Close to strike, Fade out of reach. A miasma of ozone and burnt hair permeates as silence falls. The battle was decided before it ever began.  


She straightens, leaning on her staff while pushing blood-soaked strands of hair from her face. In the corrupted corpses, she sees the faces of men and women who were once people. In the field beyond them, she sees the burning huts and smells the bodies of their victims, lying mangled in the ashes. In her dreams, later that night, she will see them screaming again like an echo through eternity. She no longer rests in safety; she no longer needs lyrium to pierce the Veil. Only once exhausted can she sleep in dreamless sanctuary.  


The Mark blazes, a green flash reflecting haunted eyes, ghosts on her shoulders festering old wounds too heavy to carry. In a breath, she notices you looking, and the old ghosts are gone. Her face flush with exertion, she smiles triumphantly, and your heartstrings become a garrotte. You wonder if you help to make her ghosts go away, and the thought makes you feel full inside even as you bleed.

* * *

He watches them as they watch her, she knows they watch her but she’s too bright to see right now. Fade-ing, frantic, furious, why can’t they feel her? She’s covered in blood, it stinks, its smells just like the last time … and their pain is tied to hers in red strings and she wants them closer but she pulls away, tearful, tearing, torn, too traumatized to tell them.  


Don’t they know they can both love her? She’s made room to hold both of their hearts inside.  
Maybe if he told them, they could stop hurting all the time.

**Author's Note:**

> Aneth ara!  
> It's been quite some time since I've updated this story, so I thought I'd post a short piece I wrote a while back but was meant to take place later in the time line. The identity of the characters was specifically kept vague on purpose, because no one likes spoilers :) but yes, it alludes to a love triangle (quadrangle? who knows!). I'll try to get back to the next installment soon.  
> Dareth shiral and enjoy the journey.


End file.
